


The Obituary Mambo

by nigeltde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP-ish, first time in a long time, season 13, slight D/s, slight exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 03:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15476913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: It’s called a near-death sex miasma, Sam, and it’s a beautiful thing.





	The Obituary Mambo

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 13.22.
> 
> Title stolen from Tom Waits's Swordfishtrombone. Big time thanks to [wetsammywinchester](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester) for an invaluable first read and [zmediaoutlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride) for the beta and helping me crack its spine.

Someone’s been in the Thunderbird. 

Dean notices the second he gets through the tunnel into the garage proper. Maybe not taken her out, but someone’s been in her: the cover’s askew and stretched, elastic pulled wrong. Two people, if he had to guess. Two people in the goddamn backseat or who knows, maybe a whole alt-world Resistance gang-bang, and he grits his teeth and parks his car in her bay and checks the Ford’s interior for anything obvious. Pulls the cover back down and straightens it so the elastic doesn’t get ruined. 

Carla steers the Wrangler in at low speed, revs dropping in grumbling swoops, and stalls out hard in front of the workbench. The handbrake screeches. They got it for a song, no surprise considering the way it bucked under acceleration, and in Dean’s opinion Carla had worked miracles to keep it going over the 300 miles of backroad home. Between the TPS and the exhaust it’s gonna cost to get it running right; and take forever, too, but it’ll give him an excuse to stay out here, if Carla lets him touch it. 

A case of Bud had kept him company on the road back, sitting in Sam’s seat, and he drags it out, hears Carla pop the hood on the Jeep and tries to shelve his disappointment. So much for hiding in the garage. Showing Jack how to spin a wrench or prising Sam out of his research chair. He can’t complain. Technically it’s hers – or _theirs_ , or whatever. Bought with his cash, but if it gets a few of them out of the bunker any quicker it’s cash well spent.

“You good here?” he calls, and she looks over her shoulder, bent over the engine already, hair flyaway, smudge on her cheek. Black jeans stretched over a heart-shaped ass. Glint in her eye. Second invite she’s given him today, and Dean eyes her curves and checks in with his dick: no interest, apparently. Dean blames Sam for that, and the essay he’s probably stapled to Dean’s bedside table: Don’t Fuck The Refugees, Dean, This Means You.

“Yeah,” she says. “Unless you want to give me a hand?” 

“You’ve got it, right?” Dean says, balancing the case on this shoulder. “I should get this stuff inside.” He threads his free arm though the grocery bags and grabs his duffel, groceries poking bruises into his thighs. Not even a day’s worth of supplies, he thinks, peevish; he’s got another run in his near future and he’s gonna have to go to the next town over so they don’t clean Lebanon out completely. More gas money. “Yell if you need me.”

“Oh,” she says, and straightens. Wipes her hands on her thighs and heads to the workbench, digs around on the bottom for a drain pan. “Then can you send Simran up here?”

Which dude Simran is, he has no idea; starts to ask, and she opens the passenger door and a crumple of stained Mickey Ds wrappers fall out, and Dean looks at them and back up at her, and she ducks hastily to return them to the car.

There’s a trashcan in arm’s reach, next to the bench.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. 

Dean takes a deep breath and keeps his mouth shut, and goes looking for his brother.

::

Carla’s not one of the bad ones. None of them are the bad ones, really, and Sam would ream him if he said anything: trauma, constant combat, starvation, yurts made out of mud or however they lived, Sam’s printed out the articles about calories and PTSD and shoved them under Dean’s nose and given him that Pay Attention look, so Dean’s trying to Pay Attention. Never mind that half the water reserves of Kansas have emptied into their showers over the last week and Dean can never get a moment in there by himself and never mind that someone’s been sneaking and diluting the stash of Jack he keeps inside a bag under the workbench (money’s on buzzcut lady with the scar) and never mind that half of them still prefer to sleep in a giant blanketed pile in the library and never mind the nits. If Sam thinks himself so copacetic that he can handle the nits then Dean’s golden, Dean’s better than golden, he can handle anything.

Anything. Just about anything, except that now that Team Not-Us is warm and clean and safe they’re all randy as hell, and it should be something Dean got to celebrate along with them but all it does is spike a low-grade irritation under his skin. Dean blames Sam for that, too. Time was a chance at Carla would have made his week, but that morning she’d opened her door in her sleep clothes, braless and bedheaded and he’d heard Sam’s voice clear and prissy in his ear, _War Refugee, Dean, Trauma Survivor_ even though he wasn’t even _going_ there. He’d handed over the coffee and given her the T-minus and slouched back to his own door thinking blue murder, _we’re all fuckin trauma survivors Sam, get your rules off my dick._

He’s not judging them. He’s been there himself; it comes with the job. Still didn’t make it any less awkward the first couple of times he got cornered and still doesn’t mean that he’s not gonna keep a sharp eye on that older guy with a cracked pair of glasses who lives entirely on fruit and Dean’s Bradbury collection and who makes eyes at Dean’s brother 24/7. Most of them seem fairly fine plus or minus a bit of crazy but Greybeard pings Dean’s instincts like a motherfucker.

Sam laughed it off the first and only time Dean mentioned it. Didn’t laugh so hard once not-Bobby and their mom started taking all those scenic walks, but Dean can hardly call that a victory. He’s trying not to think about those walks himself. Or the remote way she looks at Dean and his brother and the walls that contain them, sober half-smile on her face. She’s the one who insisted on bringing all these horny freaks along and now she’s halfway out the door a week in.

It’s not a surprise. Not anymore. Dean’s guess is she’ll make tracks again soon and he’s working on not feeling much about that: just about the first thing he ever learned in this world was that want something or don’t want it, either way it doesn’t change a thing.

::

It’s boiling in the war room, because they can never seem to get warm enough; and, it’s a goddamn mess. He hits the bottom step and looks around and exhaustion swallows him alive. Only out a day and a half – not _even_ a day and a half, barely enough time for the dust to settle, and it’s like someone’s driven a dirtbike over every surface. The table’s littered with maps, folders, books. Something gross and anatomical he’s fairly sure Rowena left behind. Under the stairs is a thick scatter of dried mud, like no one ever got taught how to wipe their boots before coming inside out of the rain.

Down in the library they’ve made an effort to stack the mattresses at least, fold the blankets. Sam’s wannabe boyfriend is, as usual, sunk into one of the nice chairs, peeling an orange, chatting to one of Bobby’s lieutenants. P-something. Penny? Petunia? She’s old enough to be a Petunia. 

“Your mom’s out training with the boys,” she says, and he opens his mouth to reply and his phone buzzes in his jeans pocket, ringing and the robot lady who appeared in the latest update and who he can’t figure out how to banish says, distinctly, _New. Charlie. Calling._

She says it twice. 

The ring shifts up a step in loudness and shrillness. 

He clenches his hand around his duffel and rehitches the weight on his shoulder and stares at the floor and waits the thousand years for it to stop. 

“You seen--” His phone beeps a message melody, and he grinds his jaw – “Sam?”

“Kitchen I think,” says Petunia, and he nods, gets a pair of nods back. Greybeard chews on his orange and spits a pip into his palm, and Dean turns away before he can see if it makes it to the ashtray.

The hallways reverberate with the banging washing machines, and someone somewhere is listening to Don McLean’s greatest muzak hits and the kitchen, when he gets there, is thick with chatter that falls silent on his entrance. One of the girls at the table sits up straight and directs a blinding hopeful grin at him.

“Hi Dean,” she says, and he says hi back and keeps looking around the room, like there’s some chance his brother has shrunk three feet and will pop out from behind the shelves so Dean can breathe right again, but no. Sam’s not even _there._

Waiting at the island for the toaster to pop are a big guy who’d taken point on the way out of their camp and puked on Dean’s floor after falling out the rift, and one of the real resistance soldiers, a woman he’s fairly sure is called Ida and who could probably beat Dean in an arm wrestle. Around the table are the three girls, who eye the groceries like a pack of raccoons.

He drops his duffel and lets the bags slide off his arm and into their midst, ducks his head to avoid the gaze of that wide-eyed pale girl. Maggie. The one from the caves. She’s got an empty chair next to her like she expects her vamp-chow buddy to reappear any second.

“Oh my god, Cheetos,” says the chick across from her, doing a deep dive into the plastic. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, gruff, handling the beer down onto the island, shrugging his shoulder to get the feeling back, to push away Maggie’s gaze.

She gives him the creeps. 

It’s not her fault. None of them walked away clean, if they walked away at all. Doesn’t mean he wants to see her face all the goddamn time. Doesn’t mean he wants to think about it.

In the sink a pot is soaking, something burned to the base. He picks it up – oatmeal? soup? – and puts it down helplessly. Checks his phone for Charlie’s message – _will call tnite, all well_ and underneath that is a cellphone snap of a faded winking pinup, redheaded in her glory days, paint and the boards she was painted on worn grey now by the cold. Half a Texaco sign looming stark in the background and then the blacktop stretching away to the mountains: quiet, cool, solitary.

He stares at it for a long time. 

_lookin good red_ , he types, eventually, and then thumbs at the delete button, unsure if he gets to talk like that to her this time around. The toaster pops and he looks up at the two by the island, slips his phone back in his pocket.

“You guys seen Sam around?” They all shake their heads. “How about Simran?”

“I’m Simran,” says the soldier, scraping the tub clean of butter. Tosses it in the trash and raises an eyebrow at him, amused. “You helped me empty the armoury, remember?”

“Right, of course.” Dean looks at her and draws a blank. Sam had left him and come back; their mom and Jack had been alive. Lucifer. The rest was mostly a wash. “Sorry. Carla wants you in the garage.”

“Roger,” she says, throws him a casual salute and sticks the toast in her mouth and takes her guy’s hand and heads out. He, Dean can’t help but note, has a giant purple hickey on his neck. 

He sighs, rubs at his eyes and unloads the beer into the fridge, holds a sixer in reserve. The back of his neck itches. Maggie watching him again. Like asking where Sam was was a concession, more proof that he can’t be trusted to keep track of his brother. He’s just tired, is all. It hasn’t been a good week for sleeping. There’s always something to fix or someone to hand tissues to or potatoes to peel. Getting his head on his pillow just means a few hours of lying in the dark trying not to relive shit that shouldn’t be relived, and then dreaming about it.

It’s not that he thinks Sam is missing. He’s probably just out jogging. Maybe met up with their mom and the boys and wouldn’t that be grand, standing in here as they all came in fresh-faced and eager and blooded. Happy families. Staring at him like he can tell them who they are and what comes next.

Maggie opens her mouth.

“I gotta put this away,” he says, grabbing his bag, and hits the wind, dodges down the hall. His room is empty and so is Sam’s and so is their mom’s and so is Sam’s favourite archive. Some guy yells a panicked _¡ocupado!_ when he pushes open the shower room door and Dean slams his eyes shut before he can see what can’t be unseen. Ducks right to avoid footsteps coming his way and shortcuts through the power plant, behind the range where no one really pokes around – they better not – and there, _finally_ , when he opens the door to the room he fixed up there’s his brother half-naked and flinging sweat all about the place, stretched out between the chairs and the foosball table doing – Jesus Christ, one-armed pushups, stack of dumbbells and an old-timey kettle that looks heavy as shit next to him and a freaking--

“Is that a _yoga_ mat?” 

Sam huffs a strained chuckle down at the floor, keeps on going. He’s barefoot, legs spread wide, in just his gym shorts. One hand pressed to his belly, the other planted on the mat. His hair is damp. Everything is damp. There’s a puddle of sweat under his nose, on the mat, which is pink. 

The room smells like ass.

“In my _cave_ , Sam?” he whines, and gets a grunt in return. “Can’t I just have one room in this place without a filthy weirdo in it?”

“Wherever you go, there you are,” Sam says, breathless, switching arms and resettling on his toes, peering up through his hair. He might be grinning. Dean glares daggers, locks the door behind him and makes a beeline for the bar. Wedges a couple of bottles out of the cardboard with a fair amount of force and stows the rest in the fridge, twists off the caps, and can’t help watching over the counter: the second set is slower going, slight tremble in Sam’s drop, but his rise is good, muscles shifting smooth under his skin, hair dark and plastered where it touches. Tight calves, strong bony ankles. There’s a lot of him.

“Show off,” Dean says after three, and clears his throat. Takes a long draught of his beer and waits for it to lighten the anxious press in his chest. Looks at the black TV. “It’s like a sex dungeon up there.”

Two more and Sam lowers himself to the mat with a groan, lets his arms flop by his side. Pants, garbled, into the mat: “How’d it go with Carla?”

“Saw some junk, bought some junk. Seriously Sam, I’m going nuts.”

“Couldn’t tell.” Sam rolls over and grins at him, sits up and grabs a towel, swiping under his arms, his chest, the back of his neck. “Leave them alone, they’re fine.”

“They’re _not_ fine. I have to flush one more floating condom I’ll kick ‘em all out, I don’t care what you say. And then I’m buying sixteen gallons of bleach.” 

Sam snorts a laugh, digs through his little gym bag and pulls out a black scrap of fabric and stretches it over his head. A tank, apparently, that Dean’s never seen before, as loose as his shorts and just this side of decent. When did he even buy this stuff? He folds his leg and starts massaging his calf, tilted up at Dean, still amused. “It’s really eating you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “It’s not eating you?” 

Sam shrugs but his eyes flick sideways and his mouth turns down and Dean _knew_ it. He knew they were on the same page. The good thing they had going down here has skidded into a seething mess and he _knew_ Sam wasn’t taking it as well as he was putting on. Playing the magnanimous host. 

Dean shouldn’t have left, even overnight. He should have been here to run interference. God knows how often they were knocking on his door.

Ah, shit.

“Here,” he says, coming around the bar, holding a bottle out. “Drink your lunch.” 

Sam stretches up to grab it, holds it to his forehead. “You sit on this the whole way back?”

“I know you like ‘em nice and warm.” Dean leans a hip on the corner of the foosball table. Sam downs half the bottle in two gulps, wipes his mouth, still shining with sweat, blood still high under his skin. A long session, then. Dean frowns. “How long have you been hiding in here?”

Sam shrugs again. “A while,” he says, which means too long. He couldn’t have spent the night, could he? “They’re all just kinda, uh. Keyed up about being alive, I guess. It is a little bit intense.”

“It’s called a near-death sex miasma, Sam, and it’s a beautiful thing,” Dean says, pointing with his beer hand, and feels better when Sam shakes his head, grin curling his mouth, the corners of his eyes. 

Such a dork, still, after all these years.

“I never thought I’d hear you complain about a sex dungeon,” he says. Dean shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Maybe I could enjoy it more if you weren’t cockblocking me.”

Sam stops, bottle raised halfway. “ _Cockblocking_?”

“Yeah man, Carla’s got this ass, and all I can hear is you going, bleehhh, don’t take advantage or whatever.”

Sam twitches a baffled frown up at him. “She’s an adult, Dean. I mean, there’s a layer of reliance and gratitude that gives me some pause – I’d recommend against it – but that’s never stopped you before.”

“Oh.” Dean blinks down at him, and he blinks back. “Right. Fuck.”

Sam snorts. “It’s very chivalrous of you.”

“I’m a prince,” Dean sighs, and Sam smirks and sets his bottle aside and kneels to roll up his mat.

Dean watches him. 

He looks good. Alive. Adult. Shoulders big and round. His hair falling forward in thick damp hanks. It makes Dean’s palms itch. He drinks and his mind turns back on that feeling that had chased him all the long solo drive that morning, an image he couldn’t shake: fixing up the Jeep in the garage, tinny radio playing and Sam with a book in the front seat, and when Dean gave the signal he’d turn the key but most of the time they were just quiet, working next to each other. 

Sounded stupid, but it had been something he was sort of – counting on. That or something close to it but now Sam sets his mat against his weights pyramid and straightens, looks around like he’s about to gather his stuff and leave. 

“Didn’t mean to make you stop,” he says, gruff, and Sam shakes his head.

“No, I was done. I might grab something to eat, go for a run.”

“The kitchen’s full of the girls.”

Sam blanches. “Think I have some protein bars in my room.” 

Mr Solutions over here. Dean narrows his eyes. “Well, careful. Your boyfriend’s waiting for you in the library. He sees you looking like that he’ll have an aneurysm.”

“His _name_ ,” Sam starts, pissy, and then falters. 

“What?”

“You’re an asshole.”

Dean grins wide. “You can’t remember it either.”

“His name is Courtney,” Sam says, resigned, and Dean presses his lips tight together and watches Sam try to suppress a smile, work up some annoyance. “Don’t.”

“I’d never,” Dean says. “Have a drink and watch some TV, come on.”

“I should probably have a shower,” Sam says, flicking a glance at the door, antsy, and Dean shakes his head.

“Occupied. Although you’re into that public stuff, aren’t you? Where’s the remote?”

“What are you talking about, public stuff?” Sam lifts his hands and looks around, at his feet, like the remote will just be lying there. “I don’t know.”

“Did you lose it somewhere?” Dean pushes off the foosball table, comes around to check the little setup between the chairs, the rack underneath. He wrinkles his nose as he passes. “Dude, you reek.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you to come sniff me,” Sam says, drawing up to his full height, arch. “I haven’t touched it so if you can’t find it then that’s on you. What do you mean, public stuff?”

Dean eyes the armchair and curls his lip. “Check between the cushions.”

“ _You_ check.”

“My hands are full,” Dean says, “see?” and drinks, two-handed. Lowers the bottle to see Sam staring at him kinda wild-eyed. “Come on,” he says, and waves, hurry-up. “I’m not sticking my hand into a web of your hairballs and ancient crumbs.”

Sam purses his lips, folds his arms across his chest. “No.”

“Do it.”

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to let you order me around.” 

“ _You’re_ insane,” Dean mutters, and shoves his hand around the edges of both chairs, rapid, skin crawling: his own is clean, but his pinky hits something metal in the depths of Sam’s chair and he pulls out a set of keys, jingling, and an unfamiliar squareish keyring. Holds it up, gives Sam the stinkeye.

Sam glances at it. “I don’t _think_ it’s a remote,” he says, acidic, and Dean waves them in the air. 

“What even are these?”

“The keys from that bus. I must have--”

“The bus?” Dean echoes, confused, and then realises, with a dimming queasy wrench: the bus from over _there_. His hand clenches tight around them and the great state of Ohio digs into his palm and a headache throbs into being behind his eyes. That place just won’t leave him alone. Not even safe from it here. He jabs a finger towards the door. “That mess out there isn’t enough of a souvenir for you?”

“Well, obviously I did it on purpose,” Sam starts, frowning, and Dean shakes his head and spots the remote under the bar. Bites the inside of his cheek, slaps the keys into Sam’s chest as he passes and feels Sam take them reflexively, hand covering his before he tugs away, gross with sweat.

He wipes it off on his jeans, grabs the remote and flicks through channels and ignores Sam standing stiff in his periphery, ditching the keys into his gym bag. What, is he gonna keep them? Planning on a return jaunt? Jesus Christ.

SNL, Murray era. “Nice,” he says, and drinks. “Weren’t you gonna go for a run?”

“Maybe _you_ should go for a run,” Sam says, snippy. “Work out some of--” he waves his hand up and down Dean, dismissive, “-- _this_.”

“Sounds like a blast.” He stalks towards the armchairs and Sam scoffs and plucks the remote right out of his hand. “What are you, five?” he snaps, and Sam points it at the TV and presses mute, classic stubborn set to his jaw that means Dean can wave goodbye to any kind of peaceful companionate vision of the afternoon he’d had and he rubs at his temple and shakes his head, small, disbelieving. “I’m too tired for this, give it back.”

“What, Carla kept you up?”

“Jealous?” he says, and makes a grab for it, and Sam jerks it out of reach which is just fucking – he takes a deep breath. He just wants to drink and get his TV on and be alone and at peace for a clear minute of his godforsaken life. “Don’t be a little bitch, Sam, seriously.”

Sam stares hot at him a moment, teetering on the edge of outrage; blinks, and laughs, and breaks the other way. Holds it up, smirking. “You want it?”

Dean glares. “Don’t make me kick you out.”

Sam cocks his head, grin widening, smug. “You think you could?”

“I’ve been kicking your ass since you were knee high, you think I’ve forgotten how?” Dean says, and makes another attempt and Sam grabs his wrist lightning quick and holds him, just _holds_ him tight and shock jumps between them, danger; Dean freezes and Sam’s grin drops away fast and something dark sparks up in his eyes. 

“Try me,” he says, voice gone low, and it’s only because Dean’s at a bad angle but there’s a microsecond where he tests Sam’s grip and it’s like trying to shift a tank; no give there at all and his heart thumps and heat flares under his skin, and he relaxes, very carefully, because trying and failing is not an option here.

“I’m just saying,” he says, calm, “if you want the privilege of hiding in _my_ \--”

“So I’m a _guest_ here?” Sam says, careful and still but something’s running underneath there and his fingers tighten around Dean’s wrist; Dean’s gonna have bruises there tomorrow, and it’s hard to think past that.

“If you’re gonna mess it up,” Dean starts, and his brain trips and his heart too, a giant vacant skip in his chest and he stutters, “Sam let me go let me _go_.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he relaxes. Dean twists free. Doesn’t stumble back but it’s a near thing and Sam keeps staring at him, not a goddamn inch of this place Dean can go without someone picking at him with their eyes and it pushes him closer to panic and he puts some space between them, some breathable air. His wrist burns like it’s been scalded. His head is vacant of thought.

Sam’s voice settles quiet, like he’s preparing for hurt.

“Public stuff?”

“Jesus,” Dean snaps, waves his bottle. “You know what I mean. Wasn’t out of the ordinary to cop an eyeful when you were soulless. And you banged that waitress in the car fifty feet from the front door of a roadhouse, dude. Let it go.” 

“Oh.”

“Oh? You forgot?”

“I thought--” Sam chews his lip. “Uh, maybe you were talking about--”

“I’m not talking about anything, Sam,” he says, and blows out a long breath. “I just want five minutes where I don’t have to--” he mimes an explosion next to his head.

A pause. Sam’s mouth twitches. “Sure.”

“Gimme the remote.”

Sam sighs and hands it over and Dean stares at the TV, finger hovering over the volume. Commercials now, of course. Tide. Mazda. Something he can’t tell without the sound but seems to involve a lot of bouncing blonde children and fields of wheat looking nothing like the two million or so fields he’s driven past in his time. Pills, describing Dean’s life: are you tired? Are you stressed? Do your joints ache? Your back? Can’t get to sleep? Got a brother who rides every last sore nerve you have, and all the other ones too?

Sam’s watching as well, long neck craned at an angle, his profile to Dean. Not seeing the TV at all. He’s thinking something through and it makes Dean nervous, something coming down the pike he can’t control. TV light shifting over his face and then the blue keglight throwing half his cheek into shadow: his stubble dark, his eyes, his mouth a solemn line. 

What was Dean thinking, blue lights? Was he thinking about this? Sam in here? The way it would look? 

How pathetic can you get?

 _Ask your doctor_ , the man in the white coat says, soundless, with his square jaw and his salt-and-pepper hair and Dean looks at him and thinks, on a bitter ugly wave, _no cure for this_ , and drains his bottle, sets it on the bar. Christ, a six-pack’s not gonna last him. He should have brought two.

Heavy silence and Sam’s gaze lands back on him, raising the hackles on the back of Dean’s neck as he cracks the cap on a second and goes for a little wander, puts the foosball table between them, clicking the score blocks along as he passes. His eyes on his hand.

“You gonna go for that run or what?” he says, useless, trailing off, twirling a handle, watching the defenders spin mindlessly. 

One of the chairs creaks. Sam is leaning on it, facing him, hands propped on the backrest, neck of his tank low and stretched out, legs long and hairy and crossed at the ankle, ridiculous, almost naked, and serious, way too serious for Dean to feel safe.

“I died last week,” he says, and Dean flinches. Involuntary, bile rising, room going dark, like the black of the caves has come for him again, the stench, blood and mud and rot. Cas holding him back, arm like an iron bar. Sam sucked into the void, unable to do a thing to stop it. “So maybe you should know. Do you want to know?”

Dean drops his eyes, spins the handle again, gets some speed going. It’s a loud clunking rattle in a room with no music and a muted TV and just him and his brother breathing. Buzz under his skin. Danger. Like hell he wants to know. Of course he doesn’t want to know. He’s not insane.

“Know what?” he says, quiet.

“I still think about it.”

“What,” Dean says, and it comes out breathless and unfinished, down at the fake green grass. “Think about what?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that. He drinks instead, fishes in the return for the little white ball and drops it in the middle. Spins the five-bar and manages to miss. Clears his throat. “So, Mom took Jack and that scrawny kid training. Ain’t that a kick?”

“About how it used to be.”

Dean snaps his head up and Sam nods at him, a small movement, closed and watchful. 

“Pretty wide field there,” Dean says, sounding thin to his own ears. A vertical line appears between Sam’s eyebrows and he tilts his head.

It’s quiet a long time. Long enough that the world beyond the room begins to filter in: someone calls to someone else and is answered, and the underlying hum of the bunker drops a degree as the machines end their cycles and a whole tribe of people Dean doesn’t give a shit about track mud across his floors and eat his food and drink his whisky and hunt his brother and jerk off in his showers.

“You want me to narrow it down?” Sam asks, and Dean has enough of his wits left about him to say, 

“No.”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw ticks and he turns his face away, towards the door, chest rising on a deep inhale, skin shining, his arms bare. His hands are clenched around the back of the armchair. Dean looks at the indents he’s pressing into the leather and feels faint. “Is it locked?”

Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Yes.”

Sam’s throat bobs and he fixes his gaze somewhere over Dean’s shoulder. “It wasn’t bad.”

Dean scratches his thumb across his eyebrow.

“It wasn’t anything, Sam,” he says, dim and muted, his tongue thick, uncooperative. “Just a couple of rounds of kid stuff. Ancient history.” 

“Blowing you is kid stuff?”

Sucker-punch. It flattens him, a deep tug low in his belly, his balls, thickening rush of blood and Dean sways and closes his eyes and the memory hits him clear as day. Outside that bar, Sam’s hair plastered to his face, cheeks soft with the last days of his youth, and he’d been in just a t-shirt, black, warm sticky rain coating it to the lean flex of his muscles and that neon blue shining wet on his upturned face and – on his knees. 

The room is hot and closing in. Dean’s having trouble getting enough air.

“Look at me,” Sam says, softly, and there’s nothing Dean can do but open his eyes and look at him. “You remember that?”

Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t give a sign. No idea what his face is showing. What is he doing? Cliff’s edge looking down at the sea of shit they don’t talk about, whole swathes of their lives laid to rest or out of bounds.

“Ever since we got back. It’s been. In my head a lot,” Sam says, careful. Dean shakes his head, unsure what he’s refusing, and Sam’s gaze goes dark. “Ask me why.”

Dean breathes out, shallow. “Why?”

“Wondering...how it happened,” Sam says, and curls his lip. “If you hated it. Ask me why.”

“Why?” Dean whispers, skin crawling.

“Because you never. You never came to me,” Sam says, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Sam was the one who skipped out. Only thing Dean ever really knew about himself was that he couldn’t stay away. Even those days when Sam was a stranger. Even those days when Sam was dead.

“That’s crazy.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Sam says, and his lips twist, and he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and something in the room slumps, begins to dissipate and Dean clears his throat and says, hoarse,

“Jacksonville.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, still on a downswing, shoulders curving, still going away, “I know where it was.”

“Before that, Union Springs.”

“Look,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair, scrubbing at his face, some colour of regret or guilt in his voice. “I shouldn’t have--”

“Route 12. Near Sturgis.”

Sam falls silent and looks at him, expressionless. 

“Before you left,” Dean says, trying not to crack, trying to hold still, to school his face, and inside him screaming: I touched you three times in my life like that and had to bury it and the burying nearly killed me. I knew while it was happening. I was young but not so young I thought it could last.

Sam’s back to staring at the floor. Drums his fingers on the chair. “I know. I should have told you I was going.”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean says. Wipes a shaky hand across his mouth. Jesus, he can’t do this. Not again. “It’s history.”

“Yeah,” Sam says.

“Listen, I’ve gotta get,” he says, looking at the door and faltering, sick at the thought of dragging his ass out there, letting them see him like this, they’d have to know something was wrong with him, where does he go if he can’t hide here or there? “I should--”

Sam straightens, hand running up his thigh, coming to a casual rest high on his leg. “Stay here,” he says, and moves his thumb, the slightest shift, grazing the inner seam of his shorts. Rubbing. Dean swallows.

“Eyes up,” Sam says, and Dean drags his gaze up, out of focus. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here,” Sam says, even and unflinching, and that clears fog a little. 

“I’m good.” He tugs at the hem of his shirt.

“We’re alone.” 

Dean scoffs, mutters _hardly_.

“It’s just you and me in here,” Sam says, low and solid and steady, humming in Dean’s bones, making his wrist throb where Sam had locked onto him. “I want to see you.”

“I’m right here.”

Twist of frustration on Sam’s mouth. “I want – you to come here.”

“Have a shower first.”

“Do you think I’m joking?” Sam says, quiet. Movement at the edge of his vision and Sam’s thumb is shifting again, against the bulge in his shorts, hand relaxed against his thigh and his long fingers curving and six hours ago Dean had walked back into his empty motel room and looked at the second bed and missed his brother with a real deep olden-days pang, when it was just them and the road and QVC and there wasn’t more than five feet and thirty-odd years of living between them, and pretty much anywhere he was he could turn his head and Sam would be there.

“You remember,” Sam says.

“For Christ’s sake, Sam,” Dean says, lightheaded. “You think I could forget?”

Quiet intake of breath from Sam and his thumb pauses and presses and he says, clear: “So come here.”

Dean steps around the corner of the table.

Sam drops his gaze.

Dean knows it’s coming and tries to brace himself for it, leans a hand on the rail and feels his fingers tingle, white noise fuzzing loud between his ears and his other hand fisted against his thigh and he’s hard. After a week of nothing, after Carla barely giving him pause, he’s here in his own room with his brother and he’s hard, growing so fast it makes him dizzy; and he’s wet, too, enough to feel it, boxers sticky, and he doesn’t know if it shows. He can’t look. He doesn’t know what Sam can see.

“Always made me work for it,” Sam says, hushed, colour rising in his cheeks. “Always made me move first.” 

“I can’t, I couldn’t,” Dean wheezes out, shocked. He couldn’t, and he never even had a chance. Three times total was all, Sam crawling into his creaking bed, and then outside that bar with the neon drilling into his ear and the unbearable sight of his kid brother kneeling, and then, in the woods behind that awful two-room shack, in the dirt, just their hands, pale moon on Sam’s bone-stretched skin--

“I know, now,” Sam says. “But didn’t you ever want more?” 

It burns in Dean’s throat, injustice: when someone leaves that’s all you have, wanting more. Wanting does nothing but eat you alive. “What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Sam says, sure as the grave. “Did you?” Dean doesn’t answer, jaw clenched shut; couldn’t if he wanted to, and Sam waits him out and then says, soft: “Say yes.”

“Yes.” It breaks out of him, a cracking releasing feeling in his chest, breath coming fast, dizzy, and Sam makes a bit-off noise.

“Put your back against the wall.”

Dean sways, a crippling pulse of arousal, grabs the table hard, nails digging painfully into the varnish. His knees go. His sense. His vision blurs a second, clears and he looks up and Sam is still watching him. Didn’t miss any of it, didn’t miss what he did to Dean and he’s still waiting and it only turns out to be a couple of steps, easy, done without thinking or looking, tile and concrete and the vast earth cool and immovable against his back and the crushing pressure of Sam’s eyes as he shifts his weight to his feet and Dean looks at the door again – no one outside that he can hear and he could – maybe he could run except his brother is weaving his way between table and bar and he’s in front of Dean, tall and broad enough to be the world.

“Hey, Dean,” he says, hushed, kind, so familiar. Takes the bottle from Dean’s lax hand and stretches to set it on the bar. “Close your eyes.”

Dean closes his eyes and Sam hums approval and Dean’s dick throbs so hard in the constriction of his jeans it hurts, blood pounding and the low droning hum of the bunker shaking up through his feet, through his back.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Sam says, low, leaning in, heat baking off him, soaking into Dean, rasping in his throat. “I never stopped. Wanting. But I never thought I could just – take. Can I?”

Dean’s hands are fists by his sides, clenched so tight his knuckles ache. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Sam’s hair brushes his chin, and his lips murmur at Dean’s ear, voice humming deep, right down his spine, tingling behind his balls, spreading down his thighs in a warm flush. “If I said get on your knees would you do it?”

“Yes,” Dean whispers, into the dark.

“If I said turn around and bend over would you do it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, on a gasped inhale, arching out for contact. 

Sam smiles against his temple, his face pressed into Dean’s hair. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s good.” He leans back. “Open your eyes.”

Dean does. Stares at him, thunderstruck. Perilous flush in his face, lips bitten and pink, sharp and hungry. Someone new. “Sam,” he says, hoarse, and Sam shifts in and presses against him, thick line of his dick against Dean’s hip and Dean’s jaw drops on a stuttered inhale and his dick throbs and he feels himself tremble. He’s so hard he’s not sure how long he can stay standing, Sam grinding, his own mouth open and a glazed look in his eye and he’s big and Dean can _feel_ him harden. 

“Sam,” he says, in wonder, dazed, reeling, “Sammy, you like that,” and Sam gasps out a half laugh.

“Too much,” he says, and leans in, mouth at the corner of Dean’s eye, and Dean turns into him, lips grazing his jaw, the rasp of his stubble and Sam makes a hungry sound, sets a hand on the wall above Dean’s shoulder and pushes back a few inches. “Undo your belt.”

Dean undoes his belt. Rasp of the leather and the buckle clinking. He lets the ends dangle.

“Fly,” Sam says, and Dean complies, carefully, over the bulge of his dick. “Yeah. Let me see.”

Dean hooks his waistband down and lets his dick slap back against his belly, fall to graze Sam’s shirt. 

Sam licks his lips, throat working, gaze lowered, lashes dark against his cheek, and Dean trembles at the exposure. His stomach clenches; his dick looks desperate, straining for touch: precome beads at the slit and he hears Sam’s breath catch. Sam flicks his gaze up, catches Dean watching.

“Hello old friend,” Sam says, starts out a joke but it gets away from him, falls slow and serious, sad downslide of his mouth, flecks of light in his dark old eyes and Dean thinks, as he’s thought a thousand times, looking at his brother, helpless: I’d kiss you if you let me.

“Hey,” he whispers, instead, as Sam’s fingers slip under his shirt, curl and scratch across his belly, up his ribs, bare skin as the fabric rises and Dean hums, hips twitching, seeking contact, getting nothing.

“It’s my fault,” Sam says, voice worn out on regret. “I know, but. I came back.”

Came back, Dean thinks, came back for what, what have I got for you, what in this life – he reaches up to touch Sam’s face, his thumb stuttering across stubble, grazing his eyelashes, his brow. Sam’s whole cheek in his palm and Sam leaning into the pressure. Dean pushes into his skin, feels his bone underneath, slides down to the shifting columns of his neck where his beard fades, and underneath his air and his blood, his _blood_ and he winces and Sam’s hand stills, resting hot on Dean’s chest. 

“What?”

“I couldn’t stop it,” Dean says, feels his lips curl back, unhappy, unable-- “I couldn’t--”

“College?” Sam says, confused. “Dean, I had to--”

“You _died_ ,” he says, and flinches, his whole body, feels himself crack, wild-dog grief, Sam _taken_ from him and there was nothing he could do, he’d been so useless – never a time in his life when he’d had the strength to stop the world coming for his brother and Sam grabs Dean’s wrist and drags it to the front of his shorts and wraps Dean’s hand firm around his dick, grinds into his palm, the whole hard length of him, huge. His eyes strong and clear.

“It didn’t take,” he says, and breaks into a madcap grin, free, breathtaking, and goes right ahead and kisses Dean, open-mouthed and hot and Dean tastes him, his tongue and the dried salt of his workout sweat and his stubble on Dean’s lips and the power of him that broke the world and told Lucifer to get fucked and built Dean up from nothing. His nose digs into Dean’s cheek and he whimpers high and cracked as Dean works him, rubs with the heel of his hand, thin fabric no barrier to his staggering heat, how big he is, and Dean’s other hand is tangled damp in his hair to keep him close in the kiss, Sam biting his lip, his chin and then he’s--

Sam turns him and shoves him against the wall. Plasters himself against Dean’s back, burning, arms bracketing Dean’s, hands planted alongside and Dean has to, Jesus, he has to work not to get crushed, Sam’s hips jammed hard against his ass, and he presses back-- 

There’s a noise, something sharp and awful – knocking, on the door and someone calls his name through, and Sam’s, and Dean’s stomach plummets – Mom, their mom, for fuck’s sake, and he jolts back hard and can’t shift Sam an inch, Sam’s voice snaking in his ear, deadly.

“Dad was in that bar, remember?” he says, and his right hand drops and he’s touching Dean, no ceremony, fingers curled around, long strokes, moving with Dean as he squirms up, panic drumming and nowhere to go: it’s good, so good and something huge builds in the hollow of Dean’s throat and he swallows desperately to keep it down. “Ten feet on the other side of that wall. Could have busted us, any one of those good ol’ boys could have busted us.”

A deeper voice outside, muffled: one of the men, Bobby maybe. The handle rattles, loud as a heart attack, silver glinting in the corner of Dean’s eye and Sam works him faster, around the head, firm slick pressure, his teeth grazing the back of Dean’s neck.

“I wanted them to,” he says, forced out low, and Dean quakes, head falling forward. “Wanted them to – oh, Christ,” he sighs, and grinds against Dean’s ass, riding the crease and Dean can’t even move enough to arch into it, to get more. “See what I could do. To you.”

“No, fuck,” Dean says, curdling at the thought of it, their eyes on him, caged helpless between his brother and a concrete wall with his eyes closed and his jeans half down and his cock aching and wet, as Sam abandons it, reaches past to cup his balls; whispers _easy_ , dips his head to lick against the shift of Dean’s neck as he drags in another breath. Trying to spread his thighs more, belt like a band around his knees and it’s not enough, he needs space, he needs a stable base, he can’t move, what is he supposed to do, isn’t he supposed to _do_ something? Run down like a dog into this windowless room, one entry one exit and his brother occluding the world.

“Imagine if you’d been louder,” Sam says, rough-edged, obsessional, private; a thought worn thin with handling. “And they’d seen. I wouldn’t have stopped.”

A whimper traps itself in Dean’s throat and he reaches behind, hand hooking into Sam’s hair, curving the lines of his skull, and Sam shifts even closer, shoulder dipping as he seeks behind Dean’s balls and presses inside, not completely dry but it’s only Dean’s own wet that’s easing the way and Dean clenches around him, shocked, involuntary, rising on his toes and Sam shifts with him, gets deeper and his other hand drops to work Dean’s dick again.

“Show me you like it,” he says, and Dean shudders all over and moans, high and helpless and loud and feels Sam’s lips smear on his cheek, whispering something that sounds like _good boy_ which can’t be true except it settles sick and hot in the pit of his stomach and he’s got – he’s got Dean trapped wholly against the wall, half holding him up and a sunken molten feeling in Dean’s gut knows that if he told Dean to scream he would. If he told Dean to take his whole fist he would, he’d try at least, if he told Dean to stand there and let the whole goddamn bunker walk past and have a go right now he would, it’s impossible, it’s untenable, how – how – how--

“Come on,” Sam whispers, desperate, pulling Dean back against his dick, “come on, are you close? I wanna see, I wanna--” and Dean grinds his knuckles against the wall and fucks into Sam’s hand, chasing the feeling but he can’t, he can’t get there and he makes a lost sound and Sam bites his shoulder and his finger slips free, he steps back and Dean gasps _no_ but Sam’s just turning him again, rolling him across the wall: eyes shining and he presses a soft fast kiss to Dean’s lips, drops to his knees too quick for Dean to react, yanks Dean’s boots off and tugs at his jeans. Dean, staggered, pulled off balance, puts a hand on his shoulder and Sam looks up from where he’s crouched, sweat in his hair, stuck to his face.

“Hey,” he says, honest and sweet. Excited. Dean’s chest squeezes, painful, heart knocked off course. “I got you.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, brushes stuck strands from his cheek with the backs of his fingers and Sam ducks away, blushing, tugs Dean’s jeans clear and folds them under his knees and leans in, one hand fitting around the groove of Dean’s hip, under his shirt, the other running up his thigh, and he looks up and licks his lips and says,

“Be quiet.”

Dean nods dumbly, toes curling on the cement in anticipation, trembling, and Sam wraps a hand around the base and licks a broad slow swipe up and across the head and all the breath is punched out of Dean’s body and his brain turns over and the room disappears, and he grunts and bites his lip, hard. The wall at his back. Trapped again but the feel of Sam’s mouth melts him, tight ring of his lips around the head of Dean’s dick, just there, only there, hot and wet with his tongue flat and rubbing and the groan Dean can’t let out knots huge and sore in his throat and he can’t press forward into more, chase the build because Sam’s holding his hip tight enough to bruise.

He looks down. Buzz in his brain like neon, blue light shining the sweat on Sam’s face and the time between collapses: Sam’s mouth again, he thinks, shattered, his fingers in Sam’s hair, thumb brushing the taut stretch of his cheek, his _lips_ , as Sam moans, greedy; Sam’s _mouth_ again, working him, and maybe in the future he’ll fuck Dean like they never got to; he’ll let Dean suck him, he’ll come inside and turn off all the parts of Dean that can’t hold on tight enough and Dean will be clean and happy; he will have nothing to worry about because Sam will be fucking him and Christ, he wants that, wants that badly enough to surrender to it: Sam’s care and his focus, the bright good feeling in his dick, shivering out across his skin.

Sam jacks him twice, lets go and his mouth slides down to take him deeper and his finger traces down electric over Dean’s balls and presses again at Dean’s ass, slides right into Dean’s body without resistance, and Dean clenches and bucks and comes, thick and pumping, Sam around him and inside him: he’s been close for so long it’s like breaking, bracing himself on Sam’s shoulder as Sam makes a muffled desperate noise and swallows, his finger pressing in still, still working, taking what Dean gives him and asking for more until Dean has to gasp out _stop_ , oversensitive, push him away, heart a racket, air burning in his lungs and cool on his dick and Sam rocks back off-balance, panting, back of his hand to his mouth and a shocked, overcome look on his face, tilted up at Dean, gorgeous and wrecked.

Dean’s heart turns sore in his chest and his knees fail him and he sags down the wall, folds down on top of Sam, alongside, presses him into the floor with one hand cradled under his head to save him from the concrete; shoves his other down Sam’s shorts, inside his briefs, clumsy, his head still spinning empty and Sam huge and hot, pumping and needy as Dean brings him out and jacks him, his eyes screwed tight closed and a look like pain on his face.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, wild strain in his voice, “oh, fuck, Dean, I love it,” even though Dean’s light years from his best. Just trying to keep up, just trying to make him feel good, fighting the waistband of his shorts, his dick so big, dark and achingly full, it makes Dean’s mouth water and he hooks a knee over Sam’s to keep his legs open and that seems to get him even hotter, being spread apart, being _here_ for Dean. Against every stacked odd the universe has thrown at them. He grew up. He grew up, and it’s not like Dean doesn’t know that, it’s not like he could have missed the man his brother became but how often does he get the proof of it hot and shaking under his hand? How often does he get to hold Sam’s life and have it be a good thing?

Dean ducks to kiss him and his phone rings. Strident even through the muffling of his jeans pocket on the floor and the robot lady says _Caz. Calling_ , and Sam groans against his lips and writhes, half despair, half a laugh, and Dean snorts and jacks him quick and shallow around the head, rubs his thumb slick across the crown, noses along Sam’s cheek. Sam grabs at his arm, fingers like bands around his elbow and Dean lifts his pace and whispers encouragement, _come on, come on Sam, you can do it._

_Caz. Calling._

_“Now,_ ” he says, voice worn out low and Sam gasps _oh_ and fucks up into his hand and comes, shooting up his belly, catching Dean’s skin and Dean works him around the base, strokes long, milks him until he moans and clutches at Dean’s hand, pulls him away, shuddering through the aftershocks. Dean, on the verge of collapse himself, punchdrunk, beaten by exhaustion, elbow sandpapering away on the concrete, can’t bring himself to look away. The flush in his skin makes his mole stand out dark, his stubble. He’s got lines on his forehead that Dean never gets close enough to see; radiating from the corner of his eyes. He’s gorgeous. 

His eyes open, hazy, out of focus. Cheeks flushed and he blinks sleepily up at Dean, mouth curling into a wide slack smile, sated, happy. 

“Hey,” Dean says, voiceless.

“Hey,” he says, back. Breathes deep and sighs a blast of cockbreath right into Dean’s face.

Dean wrinkles his nose and Sam laughs, giddy, claps him on the cheek and pushes his face aside, levers himself up to sitting, legs crossed.

“Bet you wish,” he starts, a little hoarse, and clears his throat. Tucks himself back in his shorts, and plucks at his tank with a grimace, reaches back to draw it over his head, wiping his fingers in it. He’s gabbing something muffled about the yoga mat and Dean lays his palm on Sam’s thigh. Sparse soft hair and his blazing hot skin and underneath that is just muscle. 

He swallows.

Darts a look up and sure enough Sam’s watching him, careful, considered, shadowed with worry. Dean rubs his thumb and then pushes, up Sam’s thigh and into the leg of his shorts, up to the crease of his hip; further. There are wet spots in the soft fabric of his briefs. Dean looks at the shape his hand makes under the fabric; the bulge of Sam’s dick, still full. Sam inhales, quiet, above him.

“I’m all gross, Dean,” he says, hushed, and Dean pulls his hand free and smells his fingers, the mess Sam made of him, thick and musky. It sits in his throat, fogs up his head; pools heat back down in his groin. He rolls up onto his knees, leans over Sam’s lap and kisses him, deep, with weight behind it. Sam’s arms fall back to brace behind him but he lets Dean in, lets Dean taste him again, lets Dean fondle him through his shorts, hold the weight of his balls, the curve of his dick, squirming a little because he’s still sensitive, whistle of his breath in Dean’s ear and another outside noise that intrudes, sharp cracks of gunfire; regular and in bursts of twelve, someone at the firing range and Sam’s head turns towards it and under the cover of that Dean says, stupidly, knowing it to be stupid,

“Don’t die again, I’m sick of it,” and winces, leans back and stands with a groan, aching, brushes his knees down, reaches for his jeans. Wipes his forearm across his face and darts a look at his brother sitting there watching him and Dean can read him well enough that he can see the thought in his eyes, _got me this didn’t it?_ but he doesn’t say it out loud so Dean doesn’t have to kick his ass. It wouldn’t be fun, half covered in concrete burn with his ass bare to the air. 

“One condition,” Sam says, sitting there quiet, mostly naked, as Dean tries not to fall over putting his jeans on.

“No,” he says, automatically.

“You put a bed in here,” he says, and Dean, focused on getting his belt in its loops, takes a moment to respond, bruised feeling in his chest, a sore-blooming gladness. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be obvious,” he says, eventually. “Why don’t you just write an announcement and stick it to the fridge?” 

“Hey, now there’s an idea,” Sam says, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and Dean shakes his head, holds out a hand and pulls Sam to his feet, brings him in a step, accidentally-on purpose.

“You little perv,” he says, “I never--” He pauses for another burst of gunfire; and another; gives up, blows out a sigh and Sam grins, close and secret.

“You want me to kick them all out?” he says, crowding in against Dean again, tall and solid, unmistakable, here alive in the room with him, no last time for them, no untreadable road; Sam came back. Dean’s brother can come back from anything; he can find Dean in this world and any other. Bedrock.

“Ah,” Dean says, and slides a hand around Sam’s back, fits his fingers in the groove of his spine and pulls him in close, tilts his head up to look Sam in the eye. Grins back, and shrugs, uncaring. “Let them have their fun.”

::

The end. 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback/concrit welcome.
> 
>  
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr link for those so inclined.](http://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/176405081706/the-obituary-mambo-9796-words-by-nigeltde)


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